Auros woke up in a bed that was not his own.
He was a little surprised, but not unduly shocked. It was fairly common for the young redhead to wake up in a bed that was not his. He loved to travel.
He also had a deplorable memory, for the morning, anyway. Coffee. A jumpstart was desperately needed.
He blinked crusty eyes, rubbing at them, and shaking himself mentally, trying to remember how he came to be in this nice, rather comfortable bed. Indeed, it was a quite luxurious bed - very comfortable! It was resort-quality, to be sure.
That word, resort. It struck a bell, a very relevent little soundwave.
He tried to act on the metaphorical vibration, but it had already slipped through his fingers. He gave it up for lost for the moment.
He looked around the room curiously. It was very homely.
Much nicer than his own room, which was about the size of a walk-in closet and about that comfortable.
There was a nice cheery cherry-oak desk in a corner, with a lamp. It caught his eyes, enticing it.
There appeared to be something on the desk, a lumpy pile of something grey.
He found that he could not tear his eyes away.
He moved out of bed, noting with a little discomfort that he'd slept in his clothes, and they were all weird and bunched on him. It had been a very, very long time since he had gone wandering last, and it showed.
The wood floor was very cold, and his socks and shoes were over next to the door in their usual haphazard pile. He wished they would teleport to his feet - his toes were growing quickly numb.
Thankfully, there was a rug - shaggy, the way he liked it - sitting under the desk. He moved to it quickly, and took one blissful sigh as the blood rushed back into his toes.
Then he looked at the desk.
It was quite enticing, that lumpy grain pile. Grey was not a descriptive word - it was such a horrible litote it was blasphemous.
It was silvery, but even that was wrong. Silver was dead.
This was alive.
He had no doubt about it.
It glowed. It was like molten coal off the lava, except lighter. It was vaguely cinnamon-y in scent, and by golly, it was pulsing and throbbing with the same rhythm that he felt when he wandered! The pull of life, the current, the river that everyone flowed on.
This was the deep current. He was sure of it, and he was sure that he had no idea what this thing could possibly be, to have such a hold on him!
He felt emotions, rolling off the mass of - ash? Ash! - skepticism and waryness. Skeptic? Wary?
It was ash! He could pick it up and scatter it on the wind - it should be dead!
No soul should be residing among a corpse.
He went to do that. He was deteremined to scatter it, to brush it into the carpet - because, frankly, it was creeping him out!
His hand was about five centimeters from it when his eyes caught a feather on the desk. Too small for a quill, downy - yet the strangest colours, that of fire and leaves in autumn.
What? From what bird could this have even come from?
He was deep in thought when it began to move. Subtley, slightly, with a soft dance, like a breath of wind had moved it - but determinedly toward the threatening hand.
He gasped, pulling his hand away in fright, as the feather wrapped itself tightly around one finger and squeezed.
Holding the hand close to him, his grey eyes wide with fear as he watched the feather dance back to the pile - nonchalently, if you will - and came to rest with a self-satified rise of dust.
His mouth was wide open as he stumbled back into the bed.
What the CRAP!?
[to be continued]
